Wolfville Nights

by Alfred Henry Lewis

  CHAPTER XIX.

  The Luck of Hardrobe.

  "Which I tells this yere narrative first, back in one of them good oldRed Light evenin's when it's my turn to talk."

  The Old Cattleman following this remark, considered me for a moment insilence. I had myself been holding the floor of discussion in a way bothrambling and pointless for some time. I had spoken of the nationalfortune of Indians, their superstitions, their ill-luck, and other savagesubjects various and sundry. My discourse had been remarkable perhapsfor emphasis rather than accuracy; and this too held a purpose. It wascalculated to rouse my raconteur and draw him to a story. Did what I saylack energy, he might go to sleep in his chair; he had done this morethan once when I failed of interest. Also, if what I told were whollytrue and wanting in ripple of romantic error, even though my friend didme the compliment of wakefulness, he would make no comment. Neither washe likely to be provoked to any recital of counter experiences. At last,however, he gave forth the observation which I quote above and I saw thatI had brought him out. I became at once wordless and, lighting a cigar,leaned back to listen.

  "As I observes," he resumed, following a considerable pause which I wasjealous to guard against word or question of my own; "I tells this taleto Colonel Sterett, Old Man Enright, an' the others one time when we'rerestin' from them Wolfville labours of ours an' renooin' our strengthwith nosepaint in the Red Light bar. Jest as you does now, Dan Boggstakes up this question of luck where Cherokee Hall abandons it, an'likewise the subject of savages where Texas Thompson lays 'em down, an'after conj'inin' the two in fashions I deems a heap weak, allows thatluck is confined strictly to the paleface; aborigines not knowin'sufficient to become the target of vicissitoodes, excellent or otherwise.

  "'Injuns is too ignorant to have what you-all calls "luck,"' says Dan.'That gent who's to be affected either up or down by "luck" has got tohave some mental cap'bilities. An' as Injuns don't answer sechdeescriptions, they ain't no more open to "luck" than to enlight'ment."Luck" an' Injuns when took together, is preepost'rous! It's liketalkin' of a sycamore tree havin' luck. Gents, it ain't in the deck!'An' tharupon Dan seals his views by demandin' of Black Jack the bottlewith glasses all 'round.

  "'When it comes to that, Boggs,' says Colonel Sterett, as he does Danhonour in four fingers of Valley Tan, 'an' talkin' of luck, I'm yere tooffer odds that the most poignant hard-luck story on the list is thestory of Injuns as a race. An' I won't back-track their game nonefurther than Columbus at that. The savages may have found life asummer's dream prior to the arrival of that Eytalian mariner an' theornery Spainiards he surrounds himse'f with. But from the looks of thetabs, the deal since then has gone ag'inst 'em. The Injuns don't winonce. White folks, that a-way, is of themse'fs bad luck incarnate toInjuns. The savage never so much as touches 'em or listens to 'em orimitates 'em, but he rots down right thar. Which the pale-face shorelykills said Injuns on the nest! as my old grand-dad used to say.'

  "'When I recalls the finish of Hardrobe,' I remarks, sort o' cuttin' intothe argyment, the same bein' free an' open to all, 'an' I might add byway of a gratootity in lines of proof, the finish of his boy, Bloojacket,I inclines to string my chips with Colonel Sterett.'

  "'Give us the details concernin' this Hardrobe,' says Doc Peets. 'Formyse'f, I'm prone an' eager to add to my information touchin' Injuns atevery openin'.'

  "As Enright an' the rest makes expression sim'lar, I proceeds toonbuckle. I don't claim much for the tale neither. Still, I wouldn'tcopper it none for it's the trooth, an' the trooth should allers beplayed 'open' every time. I'll tell you-all this Hardrobe story as Ionfolds it to them."

  It was here my friend began looking about with a vaguely anxious eye. Isaw his need and pressed the button.

  "I was aimin' to summon my black boy, Tom," he said.

  When a moment later his favourite decanter appeared in the hands of oneof the bar-boys of the hostelry, who placed it on a little table at hiselbow and withdrew, the necessity for "Tom" seemed to disappear, andrecurring to Hardrobe, he went on.

  "Hardrobe is a Injun--a Osage buck an' belongs to the war clan of histribe. He's been eddicated East an' can read in books, an' pow-wowsAmerican mighty near as flooent as I does myse'f. An' on that last p'intI'll take a chance that I ain't tongue-tied neither.

  "Which this yere is a long time ago. Them is days when I'm young an'lithe an' strong. I can heft a pony an' I'm six foot two in mymoccasins. No, I ain't so tall by three inches now; old age shortens agent up a whole lot.

  "My range is on the south bank of Red River--over on the Texas side.Across on the no'th is the Nation--what map folks call the 'InjunTerritory.' In them epocks we experiences Injuns free an' frequent, asour drives takes us across the Nation from south to no'th the widest way.We works over the old Jones an' Plummer trail, which thoroughfare Ialloodes to once or twice before. I drives cattle over it an' I freightsover it,--me an' my eight-mule team. An' I shorely knows where all thegrass an' wood an' water is from the Red River to the Flint Hills.

  "Speakin' of the Jones an' Plummer trail, I once hears a dance-hall girlwho volunteers some songs over in a Tucson hurdygurdy, an' that maidensort o' dims my sights some. First, she gives us _The Dying Ranger_, thesame bein' enough of itse'f to start a sob or two; speshul when folks is,as Colonel Sterett says, 'a leetle drinkin'.' Then when the publicclamours for more she sings something which begins:

  "'Thar's many a boy who once follows the herds, On the Jones an' Plummer trail; Some dies of drink an' some of lead, An' some over kyards, an' none in bed; But they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words, We gives 'em "Farewell an' hail."'

  "Son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me I has to_vamos_ that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears.Shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' thatmelody a-makin' of references to the old Jones an' Plummer days comesmighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs.

  "This yere cattle business ain't what it used to be; no more iscow-punchers. Things is gettin' effete. These day it's a case of chutesan' brandin' pens an' wire fences an' ten-mile pastures, an' thar's solittle ropin' that a boy don't have practice enough to know how to catchhis pony.

  "In the times I'm dreamin' of all this is different. I recalls how wefrequent works a month with a beef herd, say of four thousand head, outon the stark an' open plains, ropin' an' throwin' an' runnin' aroad-brand onto 'em. Thar's a dozen different range brands in the bunch,mebby, and we needs a road-brand common to 'em all, so in case ofstampedes on our trip to the no'th we knows our cattle ag'in an' can pick'em out from among the local cattle which they takes to minglin' with.It's shorely work, markin' big strong steers that-away! Throwin' athousand-pound longhorn with a six hundred-pound cayouse is tellin' onall involved an' a gent who's pitchin' his rope industrious will weardown five broncos by sundown.

  "It's a sharp winter an' cattle dies that fast they simply defies thebest efforts of ravens an' coyotes to get away with the supply. It'sbeen blowin' a blizzard of snow for weeks. The gales is from the no'than' they lashes the plains from the Bad Lands to the Rio Grande. Whenthe storm first prounces on the cattle up yonder in the Yellowstonecountry, the he'pless beasts turns their onprotestin' tails and begins todrift. For weeks, as I remarks, that tempest throws itse'f loose, an'night an' day, what cattle keeps their feet an' lives, comes driftin' on.

  "Nacherally the boys comes with 'em. Their winter sign-camps breaks upan' the riders turns south with the cattle. No, they can't do nothin';you-all couldn't turn 'em or hold 'em or drive 'em back while the stormlasts. But it's the dooty of the punchers to keep abreast of theirbrands an' be thar the moment the blizzard abates.

  "It's shore a spectacle! For a wild an' tossin' front of five hundredmiles, from west to east, the storm-beat herds comes driftin'. An'ridin' an' sw'arin' an' plungin' about comes with 'em the boys on theirbroncos. They don't have nothin' more'n the duds on their
backs, an'mebby their saddle blankets an' slickers. But they kills beef to eat asthey needs it, an' the ponies paws through the snow for grass, an' theyexists along all right. For all those snow-filled, wind-swept weeksthey're ridin' an' cussin'. They comes spatterin' through the rivers,an' swoopin' an' whoopin' over the divides that lays between. Theycrosses the Heart an' the Cannon Ball an' the Cheyenne an' the White an'the Niobrara an' the Platte an' the Republican an' the Solomon an' theSmoky an' the Arkansaw, to say nothin' of the hundreds of forks an'branches which flows an' twines an' twists between; an' final, you runsup on boys along the Canadian who's come from the Upper Missouri. An' asfor cattle! it looks like it's one onbroken herd from Fort Elliot towhere the Canadian opens into the Arkansaw!

  "The chuck waggons of a thousand brands ain't two days behind the boys,an' by no time after that blizzard simmers, thar's camp-fires burnin' an'blinkin' between the Canadian an' the Red all along from the Choctawcountry as far west as the Panhandle. Shore, every cow-puncher makes forthe nearest smoke, feeds up an' recooperates; and then he with the othersbegins the gatherin' of the cattle an' the slow northern drive of thereturn. Which the spring overtakes 'em an' passes 'em on it's way to theno'th, an' the grass is green an' deep before ever they're back on theirranges ag'in.

  "It's a great ride, says you? Son, I once attends where a lecture sharpholds forth as to Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. As was the properthing I sets silent through them hardships. But I could, it I'm disposedto become a disturbin' element or goes out to cut loose cantankerous an'dispootatious in another gent's game, have showed him the Frenchexperiences that Moscow time is Sunday school excursions compared withthese trips the boys makes when on the breath of that blizzard theyswings south with their herds. Them yooths, some of 'em, is over eighthundred miles from their home-ranch; an' she's the first an' only time Iever meets up with a Yellowstone brand on the Canadian.

  "You-all can put down a bet I'm no idle an' listless looker-on thatblizzard time; an' I grows speshul active at the close. It behooves usRed River gents of cattle to stir about. The wild hard-ridin'knight-errants of the rope an' spur who cataracts themse'fs upon us withtheir driftin' cattle doorin' said tempest looks like they're plentycap'ble of drivin' our steers no'th with their own, sort o' makin' up thedeeficiencies of the storm.

  "I brands over four thousand calves the spring before, which means I hasat least twenty thousand head,--or five times what Ibrands--skallihootin' an' hybernatin' about the ranges. An' bein' asyou-all notes some strong on cattle, an' not allowin' none for themYellowstone adventurers to drive any of 'em no'th, I've got about 'levenoutfits at work, overhaulin' the herds an' round-ups, an' ridin' roundan' through 'em, weedin' out my brand an' throwin' 'em back on my RedRiver range. I has to do it, or our visitin' Yellowstone guests wouldhave stole me pore as Job's turkey.

  "Whatever is a 'outfit' you asks? It's a range boss, a chuck waggon withfour mules an' a range cook, two hoss hustlers to hold the ponies, eightriders an' a bunch of about seventy ponies--say seven to a boy. Theseyere 'leven outfits I speaks of is scattered east an' west mebby she'sa-hundred miles along the no'th fringe of my range, a-combin' an'a-searchin' of the bunches an' cuttin' out all specimens of my brand whenfound. For myse'f, personal, I'm cavortin' about on the loose like,stoppin' some nights at one camp' an' some nights at another, keepin'cases on the deal.

  "It's at one of my camps one evenin' when I crosses up first with thisyere Hardrobe. His boy, Bloojacket, is with him. Hardrobe himse'f ismebby goin' on fifty, while Bloojacket ain't more'n say twenty-one.Shore, they're out for cattle, too; them savages has a heap of cattle,an' since they finds their brands an' bunches same as the rest of us alltangled up with the Yellowstone aliens doorin' the blizzard, Hardrobe an'his boy Bloojacket rides up an' asks can they work partners with a outfitof mine.

  "As I explains previous I'm averse to Injuns, but this Hardrobe is aonusual Injun; an' as he's settin' in ag'inst a stiff game the way thingsis mixed up, an' bein' only him an' his boy he's too weak to protecthimse'f, I yields consent, I yields the more pleasant for fear,--since Idrives through the Osage country now an' then--this Hardrobe an' his heirplays even by stampedin' my cattle some evenin' if I don't. Thar'snothin' like a dash of se'f-interest to make a gent urbane, an' so Iinvites Hardrobe an' Bloojacket to make my camp their headquarters likeI'd been yearnin' for the chance.

  "As you-all must have long ago tracked up on the information, it'ssooperfluous for me to su'gest that a gent gets used to things. Moreoverhe gets used frequent to things that he's born with notions ag'inst; an'them aversions will simmer an' subside ontil he's friendly with folks heonce honed to shoot on sight. It turns out that a-way about me an' thisHardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket. What he'ps, no doubt, is they'recapar'soned like folks, with big hats, bloo shirts, trousers,cow-laiggin's, boots an' spurs, fit an' ready to enter a civilisedparlour at the drop of the handkerchief. Ceasin' to rope for reasons,however, it's enough to say these savages an' me waxes as thick asm'lasses. Both of 'em's been eddicated at some Injun school which thegov'ment--allers buckin' the impossible, the gov'ment is,--upholds in itsvain endeavours to turn red into white an' make folks of a savage.

  "Bloojacket is down from the Bad Land country himself not long prior,bein' he's been servin' his Great Father as one of Gen'ral Crook's scoutsin the Sittin' Bull campaign. This young Bloojacket,--who's bubblin'over with sperits--has a heap of interestin' stories about the 'GreyFox.' It's doo to Bloojacket to say he performs them dooties of his as ascout like a clean-strain sport, an' quits an' p'ints back for thepaternal camp of Hardrobe in high repoote. Thar's one feat of fast hardridin' that Injun performs, which I hears from others, an' which you-allmight not find oninterestin' if I saws it onto you.

  "Merritt with three hundred cavalry marches twenty-five miles onemornin'. Thar's forty Injun scouts along, among 'em this Bloojacket;said copper-hued auxiliaries bein' onder the command of Gen'ral Stanton,as game an' good a gent as ever packs a gun. It's at noon; Merritt an'his outfit camps at the Rawhide Buttes. Thar's a courier from Crookovertakes 'em. He says that word comes trailin' in that the Cheyennes atthe Red Cloud agency is makin' war medicine an' about to go swarmin' offto hook up with Sittin' Bull an' Crazy Hoss in the Sioux croosades.Crook tells Merritt to detach a band of his scouts to go flutterin' overto Red Cloud an' take a look at the Cheyennes's hand.

  "Stanton tells off four of his savages an' lines out with them for theRed Cloud agency; Bloojacket bein' one. From the Rawhide Buttes to theRed Cloud agency is one hundred even miles as a bullet travels. Whatmakes it more impressive, them one hundred miles is across a traillesscountry, the same bein' as rocky as Red Dog whiskey an' rough as the lifestory of a mule. Which Stanton, Bloojacket an' the others makes her intwelve hours even, an' comes up, a crust of dust an' sweat, to the RedCloud agency at midnight sharp. The Cheyennes has already been goneeight hours over the Great Northern trail.

  "Stanton, who's a big body of a man an' nacherally tharfore someroad-weary, camps down the moment he's free of the stirrups an' writes aletter on the agency steps by the light of a lantern. He tells Merrittto push on to the War Bonnet an' he'll head the Cheyennes off. Then hesends the Red Cloud interpreter an' four local Injuns with lead hosses topack this information back to Merritt who's waitin' the word at theRawhide Buttes. Bloojacket, for all he's done a hundred miles, declar'shimse'f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way.

  "'But you-all won't last through,' says Stanton, where he sets on thesteps, quaffin' whiskey an' reinvig'ratin' himse'f.

  "'Which if I don't, I'll turn squaw!' says Bloojacket, an' gettin' freshhosses with the others he goes squanderin' off into the midnight.

  "Son, them savages, havin' lead hosses, rides in on Merritt by fifthdrink time or say, 'leven o'clock that mornin';--one hundred miles in'leven hours! An' Bloojacket some wan an' weary for a savage isa-leadin' up the dance. Mighty fair ridin' that boy Bloojacket does!Two hundred miles in twenty-three hours o
ver a clost country ain't bad!Which it's me who says so: an' one time an' another I shore shoves plentyof scenery onder the hoofs of a cayouse myse'f.

  "About the foogitive Cheyennes? Merritt moves up to the War Bonnet likeStanton su'gests, corrals 'em, kills their ponies an' drives 'em back tothe agency on foot. Thar's nothin' so lets the whey outen a hoss-backInjun like puttin' him a-foot: an the Cheyennes settles down in sorrowan' peace immediate.

  "While Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket is with me, I'm impressedpartic'lar by the love they b'ars each other. I never does cut the trailof a father an' son who gives themse'fs up to one another like thisHardrobe an' his Bloojacket boy. I can see that Bloojacket regyards oldHardrobe like he's the No'th Star; an' as for Hardrobe himse'f, he can'tkeep his eyes off that child of his. You'd have had his life long beforehe'd let you touch a braid of Bloojacket's long ha'r. Both of 'em'splenty handsome for Injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, withhands an' feet as little as a woman's.

  "While I don't go pryin' 'round this Hardrobe's private affairs--savagesis mighty sensitive of sech matters--I learns, incidental, that Hardrobeis fair rich. He's rich even for Osages; an' they're as opulent savagesas ever makes a dance or dons a feather. Later, I finds out thatHardrobe's squaw--Bloojacket's mother--is dead.

  "'See thar?' says Hardrobe one day. We're in the southern border of theOsage country on the Grayhoss at the time, an' he p'ints to a heap ofstones piled up like a oven an' chimley, an' about four foot high. Isaveys thar's a defunct Osage inside. You-all will behold these littlepiles of burial stones on every knoll an' hill in the Osage country.'See thar,' says this Hardrobe, p'intin'. 'That's my squaw. Mighty goodsquaw once; but heap dead now.'

  "Then Hardrobe an' Bloojacket rides over an' fixes a little flag they'vegot in their war-bags to a pole which sticks up'ards outen this tomb,flyin' the ensign as Injuns allers does, upside down.

  "It's six months later, mebby--an' it's now the hard luck begins--when Ihears how Hardrobe weds a dance-hall girl over to Caldwell. Thismaiden's white; an' as beautiful as a flower an' as wicked as atrant'ler. Hardrobe brings her to his ranch in the Osage country.

  "The next tale I gets is that Bloojacket, likewise, becomes a victim tothe p'isenous fascinations of this Caldwell dance-hall damsel, an' thathim an' Hardrobe falls out; Hardrobe goin' on the warpath an' shootin'Bloojacket up a lot with a Winchester. He don't land the boy at that;Bloojacket gets away with a shattered arm. Also, the word goes thatHardrobe is still gunnin' for Bloojacket, the latter havin' gone ondercover some'ers by virchoo of the injured pinion.

  "As Colonel Sterett says, these pore aborigines experiences bad luck themoment ever they takes to braidin' in their personal destinies with apaleface. I don't blame 'em none neither. I sees this Caldwell seraphon one o'casion myse'f; she's shore a beauty! an' whenever she throws thelariat of her loveliness that a-way at a gent, she's due to fasten.

  "It's a month followin' this division of the house of Hardrobe when Iruns up on him in person. I encounters him in one of the little jim-crowrestauraws you-all finds now an' then in the Injun country. Hardrobe an'me shakes, an' then he camps down ag'in at a table where he's feedin' onfried antelope an' bakin' powder biscuit.

  "I'm standin' at the counter across the room. Jest as I turns my back,thar's the crack! of a rifle to the r'ar of the j'int, an' Hardrobepitches onto the floor as dead as ever transpires in that tribe. In theback door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an'onmoved like Injuns allers is, stands Bloojacket.

  "'My hand is forced,' he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me!One of us wore the death-mark an' had to go.'

  "'Couldn't you-all have gone with Crook ag'in?' I says. 'Which you don'thave to infest this yere stretch of country. Thar's no hobbles orsidelines on you; none whatever!'

  "Bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an'inscrootable. I can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of thatCaldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him.

  "Bloojacket walks over to where Hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightenshim round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over hisface. Thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyesof Bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if Hardrobe's aroll of blankets. But thar's no disrespects neither; jest a greatsteadiness. When he has composed him out straight, Bloojacket looks atthe remainder for mebby a minute. Then he shakes his head.

  "'He was a great man,' says Bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, withhis good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the Osages.'

  "Tharupon Bloojacket wheels on the half-breed who runs the deadfall an'who's standin' still an' scared, an' says:

  "'How much does he owe?' Then he pays Hardrobe's charges for antelopesteaks an' what chuck goes with it, an' at the close of these fiscalop'rations, remarks to the half-breed--who ain't sayin' no more'n he canhe'p,--'Don't touch belt nor buckle on him; you-all knows me!' An' I cansee that half-breed restauraw party is out to obey Bloojacket's mandates.

  "Bloojacket gives himse'f up to the Osages an' is thrown loose on p'role.But Bloojacket never gets tried.

  "A week rides by, an' he's standin' in front of the agency, sort o'makin' up some views concernin' his destinies. He's all alone; thoughforty foot off four Osage bucks is settin' together onder a cottonwoodplayin' Injun poker--the table bein' a red blanket spread on thegrass,--for two bits a corner. These yere sports in their blankets an'feathers, an' rifflin' their greasy deck, ain't sayin' nothin toBloojacket an' he ain't sayin' nothin' to them. Which jest the samethese children of nacher don't like the idee of downin' your parent none,an' it's apparent Bloojacket's already half exiled.

  "As he stands thar roominatin,' with the hot August sun beatin' down,thar's a atmosphere of sadness to go with Bloojacket. But you-all wouldhave to guess at it; his countenance is as ca'm as on that murderin'evenin' in the half-breed's restauraw.

  "Bloojacket is still thar, an' the sports onder the cottonwood is stillgruntin' joyously over their poker, when thar comes the patter of abronco's hoofs. Thar's a small dust cloud, an' then up sweeps theCaldwell beauty. She comes to a pull-up in front of Bloojacket. Thatsavage glances up with a inquirin' eye an' the glance is as steady as thehills about him. The Caldwell beauty--it seems she disdains mournin'--isrobed like a rainbow; an' she an' Bloojacket, him standin', she on herbronco, looks each other over plenty intent.

  "Which five minutes goes by if one goes by, an' thar the two stares intoeach other's eyes; an' never a word. The poker bucks keeps on with theirgamble over onder the cottonwood, an' no one looks at the two or seemslike they heeds their existence. The poker savages is onto every move;but they're troo to the Injun idee of p'liteness an' won't interfere witheven so much as the treemor of a eyelash with other folks's plays.

  "Bloojacket an' the Caldwell beauty is still gazin'. At last theCaldwell beauty's hand goes back, an' slow an' shore, brings to the fronta eight-inch six-shooter. Bloojacket, with his eye still on her an'never a flicker of feelin', don't speak or move.

  "The Caldwell beauty smiles an' shows her white teeth. Then she lays thegun across her left arm, an' all as solid as a church. Her pony's goneto sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the Caldwell beauty settlesherse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows iscomin'. The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate astrees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanketbucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.

  "'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the Caldwell beauty, asshe runs her eye along the sights. 'I must aim low or I'll shore makeragged work.'

  "Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as astachoo. Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; thearoused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot. The Caldwell beautykeeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away upthe brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an'thar's a bullet
as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set yourfinger-tip. Which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the pokerbucks plays ca'mly on."

  My venerable friend came to a full stop. After a respectful pause, Iventured an inquiry.

  "And the Caldwell beauty?" I said.

  "It ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that Caldwell hurdygurdywhere she ropes up Hardrobe first. Her laugh is as loud an' as' free,her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twentyquadrilles in a evenin' from 'Bow-to-your-partners' to'All-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them Osagetragedies you shore can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an'paint."